I Will Not Fall
by wjjmwmsn5
Summary: Sometimes it's okay to fall, to feel like you're crashing and dying and ending because you're falling. Sometimes it's okay to stop because you can't go on. Sometimes. But here - here, it's not, so I will not fall. Sequel to I Will Rise, 153rd Games, rated T for language and stuff.
1. Chapter One: Prologue

**Whoa what's this**

**IT'S A SEQUEL.  
**

**I redid my A/N format again. Now I will be doing BOOOOOLLLLDDDD. I like it better than italics. After a while italics piss me off.**

**Anyway! I still need a clump more tributes to fill up the teams please and thank you, so go think up some awesome characters, old readers and new readers alike. If you're a new reader then maybe go check out the last two in this series but you don't have to. YOU DO HOWEVER HAVE TO BECOME ADDICTED TO THIS ONE BECAUSE WE HAVE OATMEAL COOKIES AND PIZZA FROM MY GRANDMA'S HOUSE DAMN IT. **

**No really I have some oatmeal cookies and pizza from her house and I'm just like is this what the food in Heaven tastes like. **

**So yes. Submit! Review! Read! Favorite! Alert! Share the I Will series love to those around you so they can have oatmeal cookies and pizza only haha bitches it's all mine.**

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"To acknowledge that even in the strongest of groups, no one can take the Capitol down, for the One Hundred Fifty-third Hunger Games, two males and two females will be reaped from each district and will be put into teams. Whoever at the end is left alive from the victor team will be allowed to stay alive, no matter how many there are left alive on the team."

Throughout Panem people are curious about this: _More than one winner? That's been an outrage up to now!_

Victors sit back, satisfied that for once, their load will be a bit lighter when it comes to keeping their victors alive.

And people within reaping age quiver, thinking: _I could be reaped._

Forty-eight of those children thinking that very thought would indeed be reaped. The others would be saved. _Welcome to the Hunger Games,_ one thought bitterly.


	2. Chapter Two: Train Rides Part One

**I really hate reapings and therefore if you want me to continue this story whatsoever you won't question why I'm skipping reapings and going to train rides.**

**And I know this is late so agh sorry. **

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_**D1- 16- (Alice Miller)**_

The first thing I do on the train is hope that none of these people are on my team.

Platinum is too cold. He is too arrogant and it's annoying. He acts like everyone I know back home that I hate. He acts… _typical._ Billy I just don't know anything about. He walked straight to his room, disregarding even our mentors and our escort. And Angel—she's so shallow I can't even breathe around her without inviting in more pointless drama. I wish she would stop breathing. In fact, I'll ensure that she will.

The worst part is there are only two mentors, a male and a female, so I'll likely have to train with her. It's Carnelian Jeffers and Amethyst Littleton. Amethyst has insisted on getting to know us, and she and Carnelian aren't ones to take no for an answer. I see Billy and Platinum not having fun with whatever Carnelian is talking to them about. And Amethyst's cheeriness is only made worse by the fact that she and Angel just _love_ to talk to each other.

"How did you win the Games?" Angel asks, even though everyone knows that it's been drilled into the average Career's head how most of the recent victors won the Games. She's sucking up by asking for the story, probably, trying to get on Amethyst's best side. A mentor will pick a favorite without even meaning to, I assume. It would be hard not to. And then, naturally, the mentor would try to ensure the favorite wins—but inconspicuously, and it's likely that they will pull it off as the mentor probably doesn't even know they've chosen a favorite. Spending so little time talking and more time studying and training and watching has the advantages of _understanding_—understanding certain people's next moves, the way they think, the way they see everything.

"Oh, I may seem nice," Amethyst says, leaning in close to us and grinning at both of us, "but I have a temper."

"Doesn't everyone," I mutter.

She turns to me and frowns, and I think she's sizing me up but I actually can't tell. Then there's a flicker of something in her eyes. And it's weird that I can't comprehend any of this, because normally I comprehend all of it. I can read body language like it's reading a first grader's beginning reader chapter books. I think maybe what I see in her eyes is appreciation, like maybe she appreciates how well or calm of a tribute I'll be, but she hasn't seen me angry yet.

It got so bad once that I was put in anger management classes. Three years, three long years of it, and it only made me give up on things, only made me realize the power I held in my hands. I didn't care if I failed, but my parents did and my teachers did. I didn't care if I had no friends, no relationship with my awkward, bossy younger brother Harry. I didn't care if they hated me, because even if they liked me I hated them. I liked to solve, to be challenged, and maybe to hurt. Ever since I was put into training, stripped of the innocence I was born with that was "unacceptable," I liked to hurt. I beat people up. And then I talked back. And then anger management. And then power. And now here I am.

Maybe the reason I got to volunteer, the reason no one older made it instead of me, is because they saw who was walking up there and everyone thought, _No, don't mess with Alice Miller_. I'd like to think that that is what happened, even if it wasn't.

"Well," Amethyst says, back to her peppiness, "looks like I have to magnificent tributes here! I'm sure to have a winning team on my hands one way or another with you two under my belt."

* * *

_**D4- 14- (Jordon Smith)**_

_Move past the mentors,_ I think. _Move past Esmeralda._ _Just get to your room, get away—just go._

"Where are you going?" Esmeralda asks, her voice high and clear, almost normal if it weren't for the Capitol accent spread across it like butter on bread.

"To my room," I say curtly, looking back at her with challengingly raised eyebrows. "Am I not allowed?"

"Well, your mentor might want to—" she begins.

"No," I cut her off. "I'm tired. I have a headache. I'm only gonna get into an argument so stop wasting your time."

I turn away from her and walk to my room, despite her irritated huff that sends anger spreading through me, warming me up and reddening my cheeks. I walk into my room, slam shut the door, and flop back on the bed. It's soft. I spread my fingers across the silky sheets and close my eyes as I sink into the foam pillow and slide smoothly under the warm, heavy blankets. Then I'm out like a light—which I left on.

* * *

_I was five when I met Ryan. I was the last one to be led into the group but by far, I was sure, Ryan was my best friend, and I thought I was his too. It was quick for me to be initiated into the group because even though we were all so different, we meshed together so well. Crazy Nelly, smarty Sam, gossipy Stacy, funny Ryan, and obnoxious me. We were all misfits, little kids that weren't good enough for the other little kids, so we formed a band of outcasts that outlasted all the other friends. _

_Ryan died when he was twelve years old. Ryan Melly was the best person I had ever met, and he would've grown to be even better. That kid could have led a revolution, and I felt a revolution in me spark when I saw him reaped, when I watched him _die_ on live television. Ryan Melly, the boy I played with, the boy I talked to, the boy who died right before me. I saw his blood drip out, I saw his ally grieve. Heck, I still see his ally grieve, since he was the victor. And maybe Nelly and the rest of them said that it wasn't Gray Hager's fault Ryan died, but I believe that he could've saved him if he tried._

_"Let's stick together," Stacy insisted, looking from Sam to me to Nelly. "I don't want to lose you guys. I know we disagree a lot without Ryan, and we all miss him, and we're all sad, but we've got to hold together and not forget all those times we laughed and all the times Ryan smiled and said he was glad we were together. Wherever he is now, I bet he's glad we're together."_

_Th0se words just barely got us through after his death. If anyone but Stacy had said them we wouldn't have held up so well, but it was Stacy—shallow, girly Stacy, and if she was the one to not break and bend and fall away, then no one should be. If it wasn't so serious, I would've placed bets on her being the first one to fall out from the group. She wasn't strong. She was easily torn. And there she was, fitting us together with makeshift duct tape where Ryan's glue was washed away. Ryan was the glue and Stacy was the duct tape._

_"Nelly Carter!" the escort yelled, and that was when I felt my heart flee from my chest. _

_Nelly was taken away to the Games, away from them. Nelly Carter. I didn't know why that hit me; I mean, shouldn't I have seen it coming? Obviously tearing us apart by taking Ryan was nowhere near close to enough. So they took Nelly too, and that odd, horrible coincidence sent us rattling and tearing through the world of pain to find the sanity we had when we lived in what happiness we could muster in this terrible life when we were together. And when we couldn't find it, we drifted. Stacy couldn't get Sam and I together, and when she finally did, saying it was "_soooo_ beyond urgent," it only managed to tear us apart more._

_She sat us down and looked to Sam, smarty Sam whose alternate name once could have been Biggest Prick Known to Earth who was now nothing but nice to us. "Look, something's up. Don't you think it's odd that Nelly and Ryan were reaped only a year apart and no one even volunteered for either of them?" he asked. "I do, and Stace thinks I'm right. I think we should investigate when my parents go to work. They're there now."_

_I didn't really know what to say at first, but even if we found nothing I was down for doing something that would take my mind off of its own downward spiral. "Let's do it."_

_We searched for three days, and when we came to these boxes, these ordinary-seeming boxes in Sam's attic, things finally seemed to pay off._

_Until we read the articles._

Man and His Son Put to Trial for Treason,_ one article's headline read. It described how the man was executed for his treason, but the son who stated that he was emotionally manipulated by his father and got out clean._

_Confused, we looked through the articles more. And we found a picture of the guy who escaped after his father's death. It looked familiar to Sam, and when they saw the name below the picture, Sam paled and sat down on the floor, shaking his head. "No, no, no," he said, closing his eyes like it would make everything go away. "No, not happening, not happening…"_

_"What? What's this Gregor Harrason mean to you, Sam?" I asked, suspicious. I already felt anger rising in me, like I knew already that it was this Gregor's fault. _

_"That's my grandfather," Sam said, peeking through his shame to look up at me as I was beginning to connect the dots. Stacy stood off the side, looking from Sam to me, as if she expected me to burst on him at any second and she was so not ready to intervene, or whatever Stacy was thinking. Sometimes it was hard to tell with her. I tried not to get angry but I could already feel my blood boiling. _

_"Keep looking," I hissed and turned back to the boxes, rummaging through the papers that were in them._

_Eventually Stacy came up with something she read because she liked the girl's name. Lessie. She said, "Hey, let me read you her diary. Why would it be in here if it wasn't important?"_

_She read through it until she came to something and then she said, "Ooh, here we go. Listen. 'Reaping day. Age twelve. It's my first reaping and I'm really scared. Mom says it's going to be okay and Alex's too infatuated with that Kilie or whatever to care. I mean, I'm sure he __cares__, but he's not overly reassuring. I think he's just trying to cover his fear by pretending to be so far in love with his crush that he can't think of anything else. I know he likes her a lot, but not as much as he lets off._

_"'After the reaping. I didn't get reaped. Matilda did, though. She was holding my hand and I thought she was going to cry but she didn't. She walked up really brave and all and then she glared at the camera. I don't think I've ever been prouder for anyone in my entire life, not when Alex won his race in track, not when Mom and Dad got enough money for us to live her—never. I hope she survives. I know the odds are definitely not in her favor, but she's like my best friend. How can she die?'" _

_Stacy scrolled through the diary and began to read all the important bits to us and I grew angrier and angrier._

_"'Reaping. Age thirteen. Scared again. Though what's the chance I get reaped after Matilda got reaped last year? I miss Matilda._

_"'After reaping. It was Etta this time. She wasn't as brave as Matilda—but who could be? I'm still crying for the both of them. Maybe Etta has a greater chance since she's almost thirteen._

_"'Reaping. Age fourteen. Terrified. I don't feel a lot of hope. Not even Alex's continual reassurance can make me feel safe. Mom and Dad argued again last night. It didn't help me feel any better._

_"'After reaping. Age fifteen. Sienn. He was even closer to me than Matilda. He looked back at me before they took him into the Justice Building—not his family, __me.__ I think he liked me. I'm sorry we didn't have the time to fall in love like Alex and his girlfriend, Sienn. Maybe you can come back to me? _

_"'After reaping. Age sixteen. Tay. I can't pretend I have hope anymore. Bye, Tay._

_"'After reaping. Age seventeen. Mary this year. Bye, Mary. Dad told me and Alex everything. Even after Mom's insisting, __Gregor, no, they're not ready__, he still did. And I kind of thing I knew it. It's because of what his dad did when he was a kid. He was a rebellious guy, and so was Dad. I'm going to die. And one of Roy's children is going to die. I hope for the life of me he doesn't have kids. They're doomed.'"_

_I said, "Is there anything else in there?"_

_She nodded and read._

_"'This isn't Lessie anymore. It's Roy. And she's gone. She was reaped for the Games and she died. So… rest in peace, little sister. I'm so sorry for the times I wasn't there for you, and I love you. I hope you're somewhere good. Dad misses you and Mom does too and what's left of your friends… Lessie, I miss you.'"_

_Sam shouted and Stacy cried but I didn't stop beating my old friend until his parents got home and heard us and pulled me off of their son. "What do you think you're doing?" they shouted. "Get out of here! Don't come back!"_

_I ran home and told my parents nothing._

_Lily was there when I got home. She was nineteen at the time, and she had a home of her own for a while at that point. I was sure Lily was the only person I cared about. I don't know why I cared ab0ut her. But I did. She was my sister, and she understood me. But no one could understand the pain I felt when I decided that the old Jordon was dead, and there was just what I am now left, in pain, hoping for an escape._

* * *

I woke up with tears running down my cheeks, realizing I'd relived all of those painful moments vividly. I couldn't get one detail out of my head. It was so clear, so perfect, that it made me want to scream. I didn't want to sleep, so I ordered food from Avoxes and sat back down on my bed, letting the tears spill.


	3. Chapter Three: Train Rides Part Two

_Eee hi I updated. I really like this character and I hope I got her right and that everyone else likes her too.  
_

_Also shout out to random music that finally inspired me to write this. I might be slow for a while, actually, because I'm having a really shitty time lately for reasons that I don't want to blab out on here. I've been writing my novel and stuff because I don't edit it as much as I should. And SUPERNATURAL! Blame Jensen Ackle's beautiful face while I attempt to catch up to the show._

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**_D7- 17- (Hayden Murphy)_**

I don't really like people. Naturally, I'm not much of a people person considering the fact that I'm so much different from most people. I don't understand others, and I really don't _feel._ Maybe it's that that makes me think so realistically, which my mother Ellen calls pessimism, and I don't connect with them because of it. I'm good at observing, though, because you can only stare off into space for so long when alone, and after that's over with, what are you to do? Observe, or—spy.

I have some rare disorder that Ellen and Peter, my father, sometimes drone on about. I pretend to listen so I can go off to be alone and do my own things—I rather like to draw, actually—but they keep on talking and talking and talking. Anyway, it's called Congenital Insensitivity to Pain, or CIP. I can feel things, yeah, and I can tell if something's dull or sharp or hot or cold, but I can't tell if something is too cold to be touching or so hot it'll burn. I once broke my arm and didn't notice until Ellen shrieked and said, "Look how bent it is!"

That was when I was younger, when Evelyn was still loyal to us. Evelyn is my older sister, and she's a Peacekeeper now. I've always felt very betrayed by her becoming a Peacekeeper. Who does that? She was always so rebellious too that I thought she could start a revolution. I almost looked up to her, but then she had to go and be an idiot, and my brother was old enough to understand at the time. Atlas is his name. He's a bit younger than me but we still get along. He's really the only one cleverer than me.

"Hayden, you're—bleeding!" Tracy Mishclaine exclaims. I look down at my hand and realize that there was a cut down it and I was bleeding onto my denim dress. The color is darker than the red of my cardigan that I wore to keep me warm to the reaping. "Oh, dear, I'll get you a bandage. Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," I insist to Tracy, rolling my eyes. I bite my tongue—not literally, of course, as I could accidentally bite it off—tempted to blurt out about my disorder, but while that's a blessing it's also a curse. I don't want my district partners to find a way to use it against me. Tracy scurries back over to me, her glittery high heels click-clacking on the floor. She hands me the bandage and I put it over my lower palm where I was bleeding.

"Sure you're okay, dear?" Tracy asks again, her eyes actually showing quite a bit of fake concern.

"Fine," I say irritably.

She walks away and I'm alone in the car in front of the dining car. It has a lot of chairs and a TV but I'm not really sure what it's called. Reality comes crashing back to me and I feel like the brick wall that seemed to hit me in the face when I was reaped has come for strike two. Atlas, back home, alone in that house with the grieving but hopeful Ellen and Peter. Evelyn, hopefully feeling really guilty about working for the people who sent me here. I've never been overly rebellious before. I've accepted the life I live in. Sure, the Capitol is wrong, and bad, but what am I to do? So I accept it, every day, over and over, I make myself accept it.

I think I can deal with the people that were reaped along with me, though. Jordan Burbank is a little irritating—a bit too oblivious to the world, like something's wrong with him or something that I just can't pick out—but he's overall quiet. Alia Dalton and Chad Calinko seem to only speak when necessary, but whenever Alia speaks it seems like she's trying to be smart about it. Chad maybe seems a bit too arrogant when he does speak. I've heard each of them say a sentence each, but those are the feelings I got when I heard those sentences.

"Hayden," I hear a woman say. Lillian Middleton, my mentor, sticks her head in the car. "Ready for dinner? It's in a second."

I nod. "Yeah," I say quietly.

"Your hand okay? Or was Tracy just exaggerating about it?" Lillian gives me a small, tentative smile.

I look down and try to acknowledge her kindness and force a smile back but I just can't. "She was exaggerating," I get out as I give up trying to smile for Lillian. "I mean, it might be worse than I think, but—" I cut myself short and look down at the ground, even further away than Lillian.

She steps in and the door shuts behind her. She sits at a couch near the chair I'm in. "Tell me," she says. "If it's important, then I should know. I'm here to help you survive."

I sigh and look down at my hand, still refusing to look up at Lillian. Even if I wasn't feeling abnormally awkward with this confrontation, I'm not good with eye contact so I wouldn't look up at her. Eye contact makes me feel weird. Lack of eye contact makes me feel worse. So I just don't look at her entirely.

"I have Congenital Insensitivity to Pain," I say. "I can't feel a lot of pain."

She frowns and then nods slowly a second after that. "I've heard of it once or twice." She looks at me and says, "I'm sorry. That's going to be hard in the arena."

I nod. "At least," I say, and for once I'm thinking of something optimistic, "At least if I die, it won't hurt."

"I guess…" Lillian pauses for a second, like she is disturbed with this morbid thought even though she trains kids to fight to the death. "I guess that's one way to look at it."


End file.
